I drifted into journalism, while he for
years had been an unsuccessful barrister and dramatist; but one
spring, to the astonishment of us all, he brought out the play of
the season, a somewhat impossible little comedy, but full of homely
sentiment and belief in human nature. It was about a couple of
months after its production that he first introduced me to
"Pyramids, Esquire."
I was in love at the time. Her name was, I think, Naomi, and I
wanted to talk to somebody about her. Dick had a reputation for
taking an intelligent interest in other men's love affairs. He
would let a lover rave by the hour to him, taking brief notes the
while in a bulky red-covered volume labelled "Commonplace Book."
Of course everybody knew that he was using them merely as raw
material for his dramas, but we did not mind that so long as he
would only listen. I put on my hat and went round to his chambers.
We talked about indifferent matters for a quarter of an hour or so,
and then I launched forth upon my theme. I had exhausted her
beauty and goodness, and was well into my own feelings--the madness
of my ever imagining I had loved before, the utter impossibility of
my ever caring for any other woman, and my desire to die breathing
her name--before he made a move.
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